


Taped-Up Curtains

by HunterPeverell



Series: Trying (and Failing at) Spooky Prompts [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, I Tried, Paranoia, Stalking, Writer Stiles, Writers, but idk if i managed, can you guess who?, going for uneasiness, special guest star - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: Stiles is being watched.





	Taped-Up Curtains

**Author's Note:**

> Idk, okay, this just came to me in the middle of biology and I rolled with it.
> 
> Based off a prompt I got in my Advanced Writing course.
> 
> Also, can you guess who the special guest star is?

The hairs on the back of his neck rose again, and Stiles spun around, his heart beating and sweat beading along his hairline.

A couple of old ladies looked at him weird as they scooted around him and through the automated doors of the supermarket. The bags in their hands, cloth, _save the environment_ , swung from their gnarled grips.

“Y’ okay?” one of the workers asked, looking at Stiles with wary concern.

“Y-yeah,” Stiles said, hefting up his bags and ducking his head down, walking fast out the doors, cutting across the parking lot, and hopping a fence.

He couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t smooth down the hairs that rose and dotted spots of coldness down his spine. Stiles walked faster, not quite running, not willing to look like a complete crazy person in front of all the wholesome, saner families in this neighborhood.

Stiles’s home was in a little cul-de-sack a few blocks from the supermarket. If Stiles had been asked at age fifteen if he thought he’d be living in a modest one-story house in the middle of Beacon Hills at the age of twenty-three, he’d have laughed at the person and promptly dismissed the notion.

However, he hadn’t expected his book to hit off at age nineteen, and he hadn’t expected it to blow up so much that by the time he was twenty-one, he was a millionaire. Honestly, that was something he thought only happened in fanfiction.

“Fiction is based on reality,” his dad had reminded him.

“ _Fan_ fiction is based on writing-addicted nerds,” Stiles said.

“You write fanfiction,” his dad said, stumbling only a little bit over the word “fanfiction,” but smiling at Stiles.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Notice I wasn’t excluding myself,” he snarked.

The bags were slick and hot around his fingers, for Stiles was gripping the handles so tightly his palms were sweating. He nearly tripped over his garbage barrel, which was lying on its side from where the garbage collector had knocked it over.

Shaking his head, Stiles left it where lay and hurried up his driveway. Hands shaking, he unlocked his front door and slammed it behind him, shutting it and locking it.

He leaned his head back, thunking it against his door.

“Grow up, Stiles,” he mumbled, tapping his head against the wood. “Grow the fuck up, it’s nothing. You’re imagining things.”

He stood there for a few moments, breathing. The house, though small, was still too large, and Stiles felt jumpy as he pushed himself away from the door and made his way towards his kitchen.

Stiles put away the food, unable to shake his uneasiness even shielded away from the outside world—all the curtains were closed shut, the edges and middles taped down by Stiles a few years ago when he swore he saw a face peering in.

He checked the tape, made sure they were still adhesive, making sure there were no cracks. The yellowed fluorescent lights burned against his retinas as he turned around and got out a pan, making himself a quesadilla. It wasn’t much, Stiles realized as he poked at the tortilla, but he was at least eating once a day, wasn’t he?

Stiles felt too sick to eat more than once, and even though he could feel his head grow light and his heart pound too fast, he couldn’t stomach more than a few mouthfuls of food each day before he felt like he was about to barf.

He tipped his food onto a plate and ate it at the table, scarfing it down even though it was too hot.

Stiles was done within minutes, and he set the plate in the sink, washing it methodically, robotically. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t shake the feeling of unease even though he was in his own house where all the windows and doors were locked, where no one could look in an see him wrapped up in his own fear...

_Just breathe,_ he told himself as set the plate in the drainboard and staggered into his room. He closed and locked his door behind him. Maybe he’d write a bit, take his mind off his situation. His editor had been hounding him for the next chapter anyway…

Stiles screamed.

Since there was no such thing as a “manly” scream (and, really, screw gender stereotypes) Stiles ended up sounding like a punctured helium balloon.

There was a shadow of a man in his room. Taller than Stiles, hidden by shadows, he loomed before Stiles with horrifying elegance.

Just like Stiles had written.

_Impossible,_ a voice immediately denied, but as the man stepped forward out of the shadow, Stiles took in his features.

Black hair, tanned skin, dark eyes, a slightly crooked jaw…

“Hi, Stiles,” the man said.

“Scott,” Stiles squeaked. “You’re not real!”

Scott’s eyes flashed red, and he bared a fanged grin at Stiles. “Does that matter?”

“What?”

Scott shrugged. “That was me trying to be scary. Is it working?”

Stiles’s jaw worked for a few moments as he tried to figure out what the say before finally spitting, “The _fuck?_ ”

“Look,” Scott said. “I’m sorry for stalking you and everything, but I really just wanted to find you and complain and I needed to make sure I had the right person, y’know?”

“What?” Stiles said.

_Wordsmith_ people had lauded him. _Stiles Stilinski can write anything, can create worlds out of words…_ But it was as if he’d been reduced to a doll that just said the same thing over and over again in this moment.

“Okay, so, like, I know I’m the bad guy,” Scott began.

“Antagonist,” Stiles corrected. “Sorry!” he tacked on, shrinking back against his door.

_Unlock it,_ his brain said. _This is the guy you made kill a lot of people._

As Stiles fumbled with the locks, trying to be a subtle and silent as possible, Scott shot him an amused smile and continued.

“It’s fine. But, like, okay, so I’m the _antagonist,_ but I don’t like that? Like, I’d much rather take care of animals and hang out with my friends and I don’t know why I’ve gotta, like, kill people.”

“You’re the True Alpha,” Stiles mumbled.

Scott’s eyes flashed red again. “I know.”

“You’re the True Alpha and you’re the one the Pack’s supposed to be defeating!” Stiles’s hand, quite unbidden by Stiles himself, flailed a bit. Stiles forced it still. “It’s just, like, a thing, okay, dude?”

“But why is me being True Alpha mean I’ve gotta be bad?” Scott protested.

Stiles blinked, all thoughts of unlocking the door leaving his mind. “Uh…”

“I don’t _want_ to kill people.”

Oh Jesus on a scooter, Stiles hadn’t written Scott to have such a powerful puppy-dog face but _damn._

“O-okay,” Stiles said. “D-do you want to come up with something else?”

Scott offered him a bright grin. “Please? I just—I honestly think it would be more interesting if I wasn’t the ultimate bad guy. Like, I gotta have a motivation, right? Maybe my mom is being held hostage somewhere, maybe I’m being mind controlled…”

Stiles couldn’t believe this was an actual conversation he was having with his character. Was he high? Was he hallucinating? Had his brain just finally given up on him?

The air of silence around them was thick and awkward.

“Sorry,” Scott said. He looked smaller now, more friendly, more open. “I know I don’t really get any say in the matter…”

“No, it’s a good idea,” Stiles blurted out.

Scott perked right back up and Stiles couldn’t get over how _friendly_ he looked. How was this possible?

“Yeah?” Scott asked. “You think so?” He was practically bouncing where he stood, beaming at Stiles. “I wasn’t sure, ‘cause I’m not a writer, obviously, but I just thought maybe that was better?”

“I like it,” Stiles said, the cogs in his brain groaning into movement. Though he was still very much afraid, Stiles couldn’t deny that even if this wasn’t real (or was, did it even matter at this point?) he at least was going to have a good idea for his series. “Mind control. But who’s strong enough to do that?”

“Come up with another werewolf,” Scott offered. “He’s got his alpha status by being alpha to a pack of alphas or something.”

Stiles blinked. “Scott, that literally does not happen.”

“It’s fantasy!” Scott pointed out. “You can do it!”

“ _Ugh,_ ” Stiles groaned. “I’m gonna have so many complaints…”

Scott merely grinned.

Stiles couldn’t help it—he grinned back.

**Author's Note:**

> How many of you guessed correctly?
> 
> Yeah, there was also a huge mood change in there, from "creepy"-ish to more comedy-ish, but I really can't write Scott and Stiles as anything serious. It just doesn't happen with those two idiots.
> 
> And, okay, so not all of these are going to be "spooky." But I liked it, and I'd love to know what you thought!


End file.
